by Rosie Lewis
She looked across at me and nodded, a glimmer of interest in her dark eyes.
‘OK, so you go first. Tell me about your earliest memory …’
She bit her lip. I don’t think it was the sort of memory game she was expecting but she put her finger to her lips and frowned in concentration. It was a game I had played before with other children I had cared for and I found it useful in helping to reveal feelings that they might not have been able to express through conversation alone.
I came up with the idea after reading somewhere that a person’s earliest memory usually captures the nature of their entire childhood.
‘I have quite a few memories from when I was about four or five, but I’m not sure which one …’
‘Is the earliest?’ I asked. She nodded. ‘R-ight,’ I said slowly. It actually didn’t matter which one was the earliest. It was the memory that Zadie selected that would be important. ‘Then just choose the one that you think might be the earliest and tell me about it.’
There was a pregnant pause. ‘It’s not a very nice one,’ she said eventually, sounding apologetic.
I smiled. ‘It doesn’t have to be a nice one, just an early one.’
‘Well, I remember there was one day when I was playing in the garden and everyone else was in the house. I was skipping or spinning around and then I fell over and hurt my knee. I was crying and I tried to get back in the house but someone had locked the door. And that’s all I can remember.’
I was silent for a moment, absorbing what Zadie had said. Children that have known an attentive, loving carer are likely to view the world as a friendly place and tend to be optimistic in nature. If a child has experienced insecure, unreliable attachments it is probable that they will hold a pessimistic view of the world beyond their family. So a child who has been abused or mistreated is likely to choose a sad memory from all the ones available to them – and Zadie had chosen a sad memory.
She turned to me. ‘So what happens now?’
I could have continued along the same vein, allowing her to ask me the same question and then moving on to early memories of seaside trips or holidays, the sort of game that works well with younger children, but for some reason I didn’t. I don’t know why. ‘Now you tell me how you felt, alone in the garden.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘This isn’t really a game at all, is it?’
I gave her a crooked smile. ‘Well, not really a game as such. More of a conversation opener.’
‘Some conversation,’ she said with a grimace. ‘I’m doing all the talking.’
Her reply gave me another glimpse of the authentic, three-dimensional Zadie hiding beneath the loose-fitting clothes and anonymous head scarf and I grinned. ‘OK,’ I said, holding my hands up in mock surrender. ‘But you’re not the easiest girl to get to know.’
She quickly grew serious. ‘I’m sorry.’
I patted her knee. ‘No need to be sorry. But, the thing is,’ I said, angling myself around to face her, ‘if you don’t give me some idea about what the problem is at home I’m afraid there’s no way we can keep you here for much longer.’ I paused for a moment. ‘It doesn’t have to be me. If you’d rather talk to someone else I can arrange –’
‘No,’ she interrupted, looking straight at me. Her expression was earnest. ‘I want it to be you.’
I smiled and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. ‘The world won’t end if you stand up for yourself,’ I said softly. ‘You might think it will, but trust me, it really doesn’t.’ Her eyes misted over, then she dropped her gaze to her lap. We sat in silence for several minutes, the swing gently rocking.
‘I’d feel guilty talking about my family,’ she said suddenly, adding with a whisper, ‘I don’t want to be disloyal.’
Sensing that Zadie might be close to opening up, my heart quickened and I took a little breath to steady myself. ‘Yes, you’re right. You probably would feel a little guilty. I understand that, honey, really I do. But you can’t spend your whole life tiptoeing around in case you upset somebody. If you do, what sort of life will you have?’ I paused. ‘The thing is, Zadie, I think you’re frightened of something. Is loyalty so important that you’d put yourself at risk to honour it?’
She frowned but stayed silent.
‘Being loyal is admirable, but some things trump it, Zadie, and safety is one of them.’
She thought about that for a moment then gave a decisive nod. ‘I want to be safe,’ she said, her voice hoarse.
‘Good,’ I said, reaching for her hand again. ‘You’re safe here. And you can trust me. I’ll support you, whatever you tell me.’
She let out a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a squeak. ‘But maybe I’m not seeing things straight. I wanted so much to make my family proud –’ she broke off, her voice cracking. After a moment she said, ‘What if it’s me that’s wrong?’
I thought about all the children I had cared for and the power their parents wielded over them, even in their absence, remembering the sometimes maddening depth of loyalty they showed their mostly undeserving parents, no matter what had been done to them. It was easy to understand how Zadie would find it near impossible to escape the tunnel vision of her own family and gain a true sense of the world, especially when the counterbalancing effect of school had been taken away from her.
‘I think you have to trust your instincts, honey. If you feel something is wrong you have to stand up against it, no matter how many people shout you down.’
‘But it’s not just my family I’ll bring shame on if I talk. It’s my whole community. They can’t all be wrong.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘It must be me. I have bad blood.’
‘Zadie,’ I said firmly, grasping her hand even tighter. ‘There’s no such thing as bad blood. Children tend to believe what their parents tell them. If a parent insists that the world is made of custard and controlled by giant jelly babies, then that will become their child’s frame of reference.’
She laughed quietly.
‘Seriously, though, it’s very difficult to disbelieve something we’ve heard from infancy, especially when it’s reinforced by a whole community. But you need to realise that feelings are not wrong if they’re truly your own. You’re getting older now. It’s natural to start questioning things.’
I paused for a moment, hoping that what I had said would sink in. When she didn’t say anything I added, ‘I understand your feelings towards your family, perhaps more than you realise. Take me, for example. For years I felt guilty about not being the good church girl my father wanted me to be.’
She turned sharply and stared at me. ‘Really?’
I nodded, sensing that if I wanted Zadie to open up I would have to give a little bit of myself first. And to my surprise, I was beginning to suspect that in some ways she might be a kindred spirit. ‘My father is a very religious man. He wanted me to leave school at 16 so I could devote my time to doing outreach work for the church. I did, even though I had dreams of going to university. For years I tried to do what was expected of me, but to be honest it didn’t do any good. I’ve never felt as if I could ever measure up to his high standards, especially since I got divorced. I’ve always felt compelled to make up for being such a disappointment.’ I held up my hands, then dropped them softly to my lap. ‘I really don’t know why.’
Zadie was watching me avidly, staring at my lips as if she wanted to hear more.
‘It’s not his fault, to be fair. My upbringing was staunchly religious but nurturing. I’ve never felt unloved.’
‘And you’re close to your mum, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, we’re close. But I even feel like I’ve let her down.’
Zadie frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
I shrugged and gave her a wry smile. ‘Emotions often don’t.’
‘Your mum told me last night that you have a heart of gold. That you would do anything for anyone.’
‘She said that?’ My mother is a bit thrifty with compliments and so I was a bit
taken aback. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said. And then she giggled. ‘Although she also said you can be a bit naïve.’
I laughed. ‘That sounds more like it. What made her say that?’
Zadie blushed. ‘I was telling her how kind you’ve been.’
I smiled and rubbed her knee. She looked shyly away. I noticed that she was finishing her sentences. It was the first time she had managed to since we first met. I let a few moments pass and then I said, ‘So tell me about the way things were at home, before you ran away.’
It’s funny how giving a little of yourself can sometimes change the course of a relationship. Perhaps seeing that every family has its own secrets made Zadie feel more able to reveal her own, or maybe she recognised that my feelings of guilt chimed with hers, but I sensed that something basic had changed between us. The polite veneer of formality had been brushed aside and we started to talk openly.
It seemed that she remembered very little about her mum but had spent years longing for her.
‘So what happened to her?’ I asked gently.
‘I don’t know. All I can remember is the way I felt on the day I realised she’d gone. I’ve tried asking Papa about her but he gets angry and refuses to discuss it. My brothers never talk about her either. It’s like she never existed.’
Zadie went on to tell me how unhappy she was when she was told she wasn’t allowed to go back to the school she loved. From early childhood she had nursed dreams of becoming a vet and worked hard at her studies. She had been doing well but her father felt that she was neglecting her prayers. ‘Muslims who neglect their prayers can expect excruciating torment in the next world. Papa was worried that school was distracting me from my duties.’
She went on to say that her father regularly complained to the school about their lack of provision for Muslim students. Apparently the dinner ladies neglected to use different utensils for serving halal meals and the PE teachers had allowed Zadie to swim in a mixed session, even though they were aware that her family would consider it indecent.
And then she told me that her father questioned her daily when she got in from school, asking where she had changed for PE and whether there was any chance someone had caught an indecent glimpse of her. I was shocked. It seemed to me that the men in her family were behaving more like jealous lovers than blood relatives but I didn’t want to come across as judgemental so I fell silent and let a few moments pass.
‘So when did you leave?’ I asked. In my head I was trying to work out what stage Zadie was at, academically, wondering whether I could enlist the help of Liz, my ex-head teacher fostering friend, to set some work for her. ‘At the end of year 7?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘In the middle of year 8. My father drove past the school one day and saw me wearing school uniform. I wasn’t allowed back after that.’
I looked at her, frowning. ‘Wearing school uniform instead of your burqa?’
She stared blankly at me for a fraction of a second before it dawned on her that this was news to me. Her face clouded with realisation and she reddened, her eyes darting away.
‘So you preferred not to wear your robe to school?’
She shrugged sheepishly, keeping her eyes averted. ‘I just wanted to be like everyone else,’ she whispered, reaching a hand beneath her headscarf to scratch behind her ear.
‘Of course, I can understand that. So where did you get the uniform from?’
‘The school had a lost property sale at the end of year 7. I used to wear my robe over the top and then take it off when I got to school.’
I felt a niggle in my stomach at her words, although there was certainly nothing unusual about a child wanting to fit in. I could understand that. Before I had a chance to analyse the feeling Zadie interrupted my thoughts, asking, ‘So why did you ask about my earliest memory?’
‘Because a child’s early experiences shape their view of the world,’ I said softly. ‘And I want desperately to understand what’s happened in your family. And how it brought you here.’
She nodded solemnly, picking at her bands again. She let them go with such force that I winced. ‘But I had other memories. You told me to pick any of the ones I had in my head.’
‘Yes, because from those that you grasp hold of, you were likely to choose one that encapsulated the mood of your early years,’ I said, pausing again. She didn’t reply so I added, ‘It doesn’t always work out but …’
I stopped in mid-sentence as Zadie took a loud intake of breath. I thought she was going to cough but instead she turned to me. ‘It did work, Rosie,’ she whispered. And then unexpectedly, she began to cry. Huge gulping sobs that made her physically tremble.
Reaching out, I pulled her towards me and encircled her with my arms. Resting her head just below my neck, she cried for several minutes. I could feel her shaking as the sadness pulsed through her, although she made almost no sound. When her sobs subsided she thanked me, then apologised profusely.
I gripped her by her upper arms. ‘Zadie, please. Stop it. You’ve got absolutely nothing to be sorry for, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, her expression agonised. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Of course you can, sweetie,’ I said, trying to keep the puzzled frustration out of my tone. I was so pleased to be able to offer her some comfort, but I still had absolutely no idea why she was so upset.
Chapter 10
The next day was Monday and as arranged we went to Jenny’s house for coffee. Liz and Rachel arrived at the large detached house a few moments after me, looking slightly frayed around the edges after tackling the morning school-run traffic. We hugged at the gate and then I introduced Zadie who rocked nervously on her heels, eyeing Liz as if she were the foreman of a jury, ready to drag her off to the gallows.
‘Hi, Zadie,’ Liz said, releasing her grip on the young toddler in her arms. The stocky black boy slid down her body, barrelling off across Jenny’s front garden as soon as his feet touched the ground. Rachel reached around me and patted Zadie’s shoulder.
As we walked up the path together, two-year-old Kingsley careened along the neat rows of spring flowers and then began zigzagging through them. ‘Don’t do that, Kings,’ Liz called out, holding out her hand and wiggling her fingers. ‘Come over here and say hello to Rachel and Rosie.’
‘Nah, don’t wanna, silly cow,’ he chirruped, stamping on the dewy petals of some pale-yellow flowers.
‘Oooh,’ I said in my most enticing tone, ‘shall we see what toys Jenny has for you, Kingsley?’
He stopped in his tracks and looked at me, considering. A moment later he dismissed the idea. ‘Go ’way, silly bitch,’ he said in a loud voice, having decided it was more fun to squat in the middle of some pink hydrangeas. The spiral curls of his afro hair were just visible over the top of the bush.
Standing behind Rachel, I could see her shoulders quaking with suppressed laughter. I breathed out my own chuckle into the collar of my jacket while Liz marched across and grabbed Kingsley around his middle. ‘Oh the joys,’ she said, puffing as she tried to keep hold of his wriggling form and avoid his kicks at the same time. The bottoms of his trousers were damp with dew. ‘Remind me why I resigned from my perfectly good, well-paid job,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘Oh, you love it really,’ I said with a laugh, ringing the doorbell then turning back to Kingsley. There was something about mischievous little boys that was beyond adorable and I couldn’t resist giving him a playful poke in his tummy. His face creased into an angelic smile before attempting to deliver a swift kick to my stomach.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Jenny said by way of a greeting as she manoeuvred an excited puppy back with her foot, ‘but it’s all I can do to get the boys dressed and off to school on time.’
‘Course it is,’ ‘Tell me about it’ and ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ we all chimed as we kicked off our shoes, quickly on our knees and helping to clear away the detritus of the early morning rush in t
he wide hallway. I was surprised to find the floor scattered with tiny crumbs and, in one place, something sticky that attached itself to my sock. Lego pieces, football cards and comic books littered the floor, a trail that continued through to the living room. Zadie, bless her, joined in and helped to sweep all the small bits into a cupped hand without being prompted. Billy, a four-year-old boy who had lived with Jenny for just over a year, hovered at Jenny’s side and stared at Zadie with a puzzled interest, seemingly intrigued by the existence of a headscarf where hair would normally be.
Jenny’s place was usually immaculate but she had recently accepted a new sibling placement and there was nothing like it for reducing even the most organised household into chaos. Besides all the extra toys, games and clothes to find space for, an individual daily diary had to be written for each child and then there were the education plan meetings, reviews and social worker visits on top of the usual washing, ironing and trying to find enough time left over to play with them.
After tidying, Zadie volunteered to take Kingsley and Billy into the garden, perhaps seeking solace away from the unfamiliar faces. I stood at the window and watched them for a moment, my thoughts drifting to my earlier phone conversation with my mother. According to Mum, Zadie had said that she had no idea where her mother was or even if she was still alive. When Mum tried to probe further, Zadie apparently clammed up and she was left with the feeling that the teenager was holding something back.
I was afraid that we had barely scratched the surface of Zadie’s problems. Her family were strict and overprotective, I knew that much, but I still had no idea what led her to run away, or why she was too frightened to go back. A light wind tugged at Zadie’s headscarf and as she reached up to flatten it I remembered what she had said about wearing a uniform to school. It struck me as odd that she went to the trouble of buying the clothes herself and kept them hidden from her family, and yet now, when she was in a place of safety, her robe was all she wanted to wear. I wondered whether it was her way of hiding away from us; the anonymity of the robe a sort of armour against strangers.
